


Encouraging Spontaneity

by thewriterinallofus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clubbing, Dancing, Karaoke, M/M, Marina and the Diamonds, Mutual Pining, Pining Enjolras, Radio, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3157895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriterinallofus/pseuds/thewriterinallofus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire knew a lot of things about Enjolras.<br/>He knew that Enjolras was not the sort of person who stood in his living room, clad only in his tightest pair of skinny jeans, swinging his hips, singing an electropop song at the top of his lungs into a spoon as though he hadn’t a care in the world.<br/>Was he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Encouraging Spontaneity

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbetaed, and I wrote it at midnight, so I apologize in advance if it makes no sense. However, the idea came to me while listening to music and rereading "Les Misérables," (which I don't own) and I couldn't stop laughing at the image in my head.

It was just after eight on a Friday evening. Normally, Grantaire would’ve been out getting plastered, his company some permutation of Bahorel, Bossuet, or Joly. However, Enjolras had asked him to create an informational poster for the upcoming protest. The last time that Grantaire had been put to such a task, he had been two weeks late in completing it. Enjolras, his golden Apollo, had reamed him out, and then refused to speak to the cynic for a month.

Grantaire wasn’t taking any chances this time around. He’d locked himself in his room with his art supplies, his coffee maker, and his cell phone.

* * *

  
Grantaire had been working tirelessly for nearly four hours, ensuring that every detail was perfect. He sat back, having just painted the final detail on the stroke of midnight. He laced his fingers together, popping the stiff knuckles. He gazed at his work with the humble pride only known to artists when they’ve truly done their best work.

Just then, his phone rang.

Grantaire looked down from his easel to his phone. His lips curved upwards involuntarily upon seeing who was calling.

“Hello, fearless leader. This is your resident cynic speaking. What can I do you for?”

Enjolras sighed before speaking. “Aire, have you started on the poster yet?”

Grantaire chuckled, knowing he would surprise Enjolras. “Actually, I just finished it.”

Enjolras was indeed surprised to hear that Grantaire had actually completed a project for the Abaissé on time. Despite the cynic’s tendency towards procrastination, Enjolras knew that Grantaire was a fine artist, and rather looked forward to seeing the new posters. He also may be looking forward to seeing the artist himself, but that was something Enjolras would never admit to.

“That’s fantastic, Aire. When can I see them?”

The artist rolled his eyes at the revolutionary’s impatience. “It still has to dry, Apollo. How about I bring it to your place tomorrow morning around nine?”

“Nine is fi –” The word was lost in a yawn. “Sorry,” Enjolras muttered. “I’m a little tired.”

Grantaire smirked, knowing that the blonde must truly be exhausted; he hadn’t protested to being called Apollo, and had apologized to Grantaire. “Tell you what, Apollo,” the artist said finally, taking advantage of his temporary freedom to use the moniker, “How about you take the night off? Hmm? Unhook the caffeine drip in your arm, take a break from studying and saving the world, relax, and actually get to bed before three in the morning.”

Enjolras hummed. “If only I could.”

“You can, and you should. Be spontaneous for once in your life.”

In lieu of a retort, Enjolras merely replied, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Aire. Goodnight.”

“Night, sweet Apollo.”

Grantaire hung up, a smile splitting his face. Following his own advice, he sprawled back on his bed, set the alarm on his phone, put on a Tarantino marathon, and was asleep before one.

* * *

  
Where the artist had gotten a decent night’s rest, and was up before eight o’clock, the revolutionary had forgone sleep in an attempt to get a head start on the final project for his politics class. One hour, he promised himself.

One hour turned into two. Two turned into three. Three turned into four until Enjolras’ body had given out, and now, at 8:48 on a Saturday morning, he awoke to find himself hunched over his desk, clad only in his red skinny jeans, his cheek sticking to a page in his textbook.

Peeling his skin free of the glossy page, Enjolras blinked blearily at the clock. “Almost nine,” he mused.

Nine. There was something important happening at nine. Enjolras wracked his brain, trying to come up with a suitable reason. Finding none, or at least resolving to take care of it as soon as he remembered, the blonde stumbled into his kitchen, hoping to start a pot of coffee.

“Damn,” he muttered, realizing he’d depleted his entire supply last night. He stood and stretched up on his toes, sighing contentedly as his spine cracked. He lethargically fumbled for a spoon and a container of yogurt, and then he proceeded to meander into the living room.

Enjolras flopped down on the couch, slowly eating his yogurt.

“Maybe some music will wake me up,” he thought as he finished eating. With the spoon still hanging out of his mouth, Enjolras stood up and turned the radio on. A song had just finished, and the radio D.J. was announcing the next tune. “From the artist better known as ‘Marina and the Diamonds’…”

Enjolras gasped. He had a secret affinity for the Welsh songstress. Living alone had its perks; Enjolras cranked up the volume as the opening riff began.

Lost in the swirl of sugarcoated notes, Enjolras forgot that nine o’clock was fast approaching. As in two minutes away.

* * *

  
Grantaire, however, didn’t. He showed up at Enjolras’ flat at 8:58 exactly.

“Here, with two minutes to spare,” the artist muttered. He rang the doorbell. When nobody answered the door, he noticed the techno-pop beat thumping from inside. Raising an eyebrow, Grantaire tentatively tried the door. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. He gently pushed the door open.

Grantaire’s jaw hit the floor, as did the poster in his hand.

This couldn’t be real.

Enjolras was the sort of person who was still nursing his first beer long after the rest had downed a third, because, “Someone has to drive you idiots home.” He was the sort of person who would finish homework while the rest of them watched a movie, because, “This is the third time this week we’ve watched ‘The Lion King’ and some of us would prefer to graduate.” He was the sort of person who would sit alone at the bar, glaring at his friends as they sweated on the dance floor, because “Not everyone wants to be surrounded by strangers dancing in a sexual manner.”

Enjolras was not the sort of person who stood in his living room, clad only in his tightest pair of skinny jeans, swinging his hips, singing an electropop song at the top of his lungs into a spoon as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

This fact alone excused Grantaire’s momentary lapse in thought process. However, when Grantaire’s brain caught up, he had only one thought. “Beautiful.”

It was not an uncommon word for Grantaire to apply to Enjolras. To the artist, the two were practically synonymous.

This was different.

Grantaire had never seen Enjolras anything besides composed. Even when the blonde was heatedly arguing with the cynic, his words were carefully chosen, his voice was measured and intense, every move he made was deliberate, every muscle tense and at the ready.

The Enjolras before Grantaire was the exact opposite.

Enjolras’ hair was long and loose, his curls bouncing in every direction. His lanky body moved with ease and abandon. His voice was intense in its gladness, and the words he sang nonsense next to one of his speeches. His features were dominated by a brilliant smile, and his eyes shined bluer than Grantaire had ever seen them.

In short, Enjolras radiated happiness, and he never seemed more beautiful to Grantaire.

The artist was broken out of his reverie when the cobalt blues he’d been admiring focused on him.

“Um, I can explain,” they burst out simultaneously, followed by a paralleled chuckle.

“You first, Miss Sugar Pink Liquor Lips,” Grantaire said finally.

Enjolras flushed. “I…um…I ran out of coffee last night, so I thought I’d wake up with some music?” The statement ended like a question.

Grantaire laughed hesitantly. “I just came by to drop the poster off.” He gestured to it where it lay on the floor.

Oh. That’s what was happening at nine.

Enjolras cautiously crossed the room, picking the poster off the floor. “Aire, it’s beautiful. I love it.”

The artist blushed. “It’s nothing.”

“No, Grantaire. It’s fantastic. Don’t sell yourself short.”

The artist’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. “Thank you,” he murmured.

They stood there in awkward silence for a moment, before Grantaire finally deadpanned, “You know when I told you to be spontaneous, I really didn’t mean dancing shirtless in your living room by yourself. I kind of meant that you should be out with friends.”

"I'm not sure that this counts as spontaneous. It's actually a fairly regular happenstance,” Enjolras admitted.

Grantaire just threw his head back and laughed.

“Aire, I’ve been thinking about what you said. About taking the night off. What were your plans for tonight?”

Grantaire looked up in surprise. “Um, paint, drink, and paint some more. Maybe hit a bar later. Why?”

Enjolras bit his lip. “I know of this little dance club not to far from here. It’s really under the radar; I’m the only member of the Abaissé who knows where it is. Um, would you…would you want to come with me?”

The artist’s eyebrows shot up. “You want me to go dancing with you?”

The blonde nodded sheepishly. “It’s okay if you don’t. I just…”

“No. I absolutely want to go.” He felt his cheeks flush as soon as he realized what he’d said. “It’s just…you should spend time with your friends.”

“Are we not friends? I mean, I know we disagree a lot, but our arguments are trademarks of a dysfunctional friendship.”

Grantaire’s brow furrowed. “I…suppose according to that definition, we’re friends. Practically best friends.”

Enjolras beamed. “Great. Be here, say, nine tonight? I promise I’ll be spontaneous.”

“But nowhere near as spontaneous as me.”

“We’ll see.”

* * *

  
“I went to a night club of my own volition, drank more than the prerequisite first beer, and danced for four hours. I’m pretty sure I win the spontaneity contest.”

Grantaire smirked. “I accepted a random invite to a night club, drank less alcohol than is prerequisite for me, bribed the D.J. to play that stupid song, and also danced for four hours. I win.”

“I got a boyfriend,” Enjolras tacked on smugly.

“You did also kiss said boyfriend in public, and then drag him back to your place to do filthy things with him,” Grantaire conceded. “Alright, you win, but I call beginner’s luck.”

“I didn’t see you complaining while I was winning.”

“That may have had something to do with the fact that I am the boyfriend you acquired,” Grantaire murmured, pressing a kiss to Enjolras’ shoulder.

The blonde hummed happily. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Encouraging spontaneity.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of crap, I know. Whatever.  
> The song Enjolras is so happy to hear is "Bubblegum Bitch" by Marina and the Diamonds. Although, in my head, I heard the chorus to her song "Primadonna" during R's introspection on Enj's beauty.  
> The companion art can be found here: http://thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com/post/107766711834/encouraging-spontaneity-drawn-by  
> Please leave me kudos or a comment! Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
